I hear thrashing in the long grass and pause to investigate. I see a woman’s bare legs spread wide with a man between them. He grunts and ruts like a billy goat. His trousers are down around his knees, his hairy buttocks pumping up and down. She grasps his shirt in her fists, moaning with each thrust. It takes me a moment to realize what I’m looking at—when I do, I wrench my eyes away and wobble forward.
As I approach the ring stock car, I see people sitting on the open doorway and milling around outside.
There are even more inside. Kinko is lording over a party with a bottle in his hand and drunken hospitality on his face. When he catches sight of me, he trips and lurches forward. Hands reach out to catch him.
“Jacob! My man!” he shouts, his eyes fiercely bright. He shakes free of his friends and straightens up. “Folks—friends!” he calls across the crowd of about thirty people who take up the space usually occupied by Marlena’s horses. He walks over and places his arm around my waist. “This is my dear, dear friend Jacob.” He pauses to take a swig from the bottle. “Please make him welcome,” he says. “As a favor to me.”
His guests whistle and laugh. Kinko laughs until he coughs. He lets go of my waist and waves his hand in front of his purple face until he stops sputtering. Then he throws his arm around the waist of the man next to us. They stagger off.
Since the goat room is jammed tight, I head for the other end of the car, where Silver Star used to reside, and slump down against the slatted wall.
The pile of straw next to me rustles. I reach out and poke it, hoping I won’t find a rat. Queenie’s white tail stump is visible for only a moment before she burrows further into the straw, like a crab in sand.
FROM HERE ON IN, I’m not entirely sure of the order. Bottles are passed to me, and I’m pretty sure I drink from most of them. Before long, things are swimming and I’m filled with the warmth of human kindness toward everyone and everything. People have their arms around my shoulders, and I have mine around theirs. We laugh uproariously—at what, I don’t remember, but everything is a riot.
There is some game where you have to toss something, and if you miss the target you have to take a drink. I miss quite a lot. Eventually I begin to think I’m going to throw up and crawl away, to the great mirth of everyone.
I’m sitting in the corner. I can’t quite remember getting here, but I’m leaning against the wall with my head resting on my knees. I do so wish the world would stop spinning, but it doesn’t, so I try leaning my head back against the wall instead.
“Well now, what have we here?” says a sultry voice from somewhere very nearby.
My eyes pop open. A foot’s length of tightly packed cleavage is directly under my nose. I run my eyes up it until I see a face. It’s Barbara. I blink quickly, trying to see only one of her. Oh God—it’s no use. But no—wait. It’s okay. It’s not multiple Barbaras. It’s multiple women.
“Hi, honey,” says Barbara, reaching out and stroking my face. “You doing okay?”
“Mmm,” I say, trying to nod.
Her fingertips linger under my chin as she turns to the blonde crouching beside her. “So young. Oh, he’s cute as a button, isn’t he, Nell?”
Nell takes a drag from a cigarette and blows the smoke from the side of her mouth. “Sure is. Don’t think I’ve seen him before.”
“He was helping out at the cooch tent a few nights ago,” says Barbara. She turns back to me. “What’s your name, honey?” she says softly, running the backs of her fingers up and down my cheek.
“Jacob,” I say, around the edges of a belch.
“Jacob,” she says. “Oh, say, I know who you are. He’s the one Walter was talking about,” she says to Nell. “He’s brand new, a First of May. Handled himself real well at the cooch tent.”
She grabs my chin and raises it, gazing deep into my eyes. I try to return the favor but am having some trouble focusing. “Oh, you are a sweet thing. So, tell me, Jacob—you ever been with a woman?”
“I . . . uh . . .,” I say. “Uh . . .”
Nell giggles. Barbara leans back and puts her hands on her waist. “Whadya think? Wanna give him a proper welcome?”
“We practically have to,” says Nell. “A First of May and a virgin?” Her hand slips between my legs and slides over my crotch. My head, which had been wobbling on its stem, snaps upright. “You think his hair is red down there, too?” she says, cupping me in her palm.
Barbara leans forward, unclasps my hands, and lifts one to her mouth. She turns it over, runs a long nail across the palm and then stares me in the eye while running her tongue along the same path. Then she takes my hand and places it on her left breast, right where the nipple must be.
Oh God. Oh God. I’m touching a breast. Through a dress, but still—
Barbara stands up for a moment, smoothes her skirt, looks furtively around, and then crouches. I’m pondering this change of position when she takes hold of my hand again. This time she pulls it under her skirt and presses my fingers against hot, moist silk.
I catch my breath. The whiskey, the moonshine, the gin, the God-knows-what—all of it dissipates instantly. She moves my hand up and down, over her strange and wonderful valleys.
Oh shit. I may come right now.
“Hmmmm?” she purrs, rearranging my hand so that my middle finger presses further into her. Warm silk bulges around both sides of my finger, pulsing under my touch. She removes my hand, places it back on my knee, and then gives my crotch an experimental squeeze.
“Mmmmm,” she says, her eyes half-closed. “He’s ready, Nell. Damn, I love them at this age.”
The rest of the night passes in epileptic flashes. I am aware of being propped up between two women, but I think I fall out the door of the stock car. At least, I am aware of finding myself cheek down in the dirt. Then I’m swept upward again and jostled along in the dark until I’m sitting on the edge of a bed.
There are definitely two Barbaras now. And two of the other one, as well. Nell, was it?
Barbara steps backward and raises her arms in the air. She throws her head back and runs her hands over her body, dancing and moving by candlelight. I’m interested—there is no question about that. But I simply can’t sit upright anymore. So I fall back.
Someone’s yanking on my pants. I mumble something, not sure what, but I don’t think it’s encouragement. I’m suddenly not feeling well.
Oh God. She’s touching me—it—stroking experimentally. I prop myself up on my elbows and look down. It’s limp, a tiny pink turtle hiding in its shell. It also seems to be stuck to my leg. She peels it free, delves both her hands between my thighs to spread them, and reaches down for my balls. She rests them on one hand, juggling them like eggs while she examines my penis. It flops hopelessly under her manipulations while I watch, mortified.
The other woman—now there’s only one again, how the hell am I ever going to keep this straight?—lies next to me on the bed. She fishes a skinny breast from her dress and lifts it to my mouth. She rubs it all over my face. Now her lipsticked mouth is coming at me, a gaping maw with tongue extended. I turn my head to the right, where there is no woman. Then I feel a mouth close around the head of my penis.
I gasp. The women giggle, but it’s a purring sound, an encouraging sound, as they continue trying to get a response.
Oh God, oh God, she’s sucking it. Sucking it, for God’s sake.